Dead Days
by Nesloga
Summary: What Death does isn't glamorous, this England can attest to.


A/N: Kink meme fill, request was England subbing in for Death for a day.

* * *

The air was cold with mist, a harrowing chill that dug into England's bones and tugged at his insides; threatening to drag his very soul out of him if he wasn't careful, wasn't clever, wasn't enough to handle the duty that Death had given him. Because even Death needed a break, a reprieve from the haunting duties of cutting the souls from rotting bodies, whispering the sentences that would end lives into unknowing ears, and dragging the essence of nations into the ether. So when it became too much, when it was close to falling into the abyss of insanity, Death found England. It found the Nation that was barely enough to carry It's scythe and complete It's job.

That didn't mean that England had to like it though, in fact, he hated substituting for Death. Every soul he took cracked his scarred heart some, every pair of eyes he closed stole his last breath away, and every bit of news he whispered scalded his tongue. Because he was England, a Nation, and he was never meant to take up Death's scythe. But he did, because this was something only he could do, a job that he had been chosen for centuries ago when he was still an empire.

Death had approached him when he was sailing; his flag as black as night and blood staining his hands, joy from pillaging lighting his face with a predatory light. That was when It appeared. A skeletal hand had reached out, a whisper had sounded, and all of a sudden the British Empire was falling. He hit the deck of his ship with a thud, his heart slowly beating in his chest as Death crooned at him. Explaining with a terrible voice that he would be taking over It's duties for a bit, that he would become Death, or something to that effect. It had touched his heart then, actually touched it; reaching It's hand into his heaving chest to caress the organ, leaving It's mark so that It could find him later to reclaim It's powers.

England still felt that icy grip on his heart from time to time, but it was never as pronounced as the few times that Death foisted It's scythe and duties onto him.

He was damned to be Death's replacement until he was taken by the very being that stalked him on occasion. Because England had tried to ignore the task that he was given, when Death left him that first time he had staggered to his feet, hands shaking as he touched his chest; checking to make sure his heart was still working. He had attempted to throw the scythe overboard, to shred the robe that had been left behind, but it was to no avail. The scythe turned up an hour later, leaning against the main mast and he found the robe tucked away in his trunk. Neatly folded in a perfect square.

And when he ignored them, allowed them to rest in the places that they turned up, his body began to burn. Invisible fire licked at his flesh and screams rang in his ears; it took him nine days to break and grab the scythe and done the robe. The fire was instantly banked and the flames dwindled down into nothing, but the screams remained, only after watching one of his men fall into the ocean during a storm and then hearing his voice join the chorus did he realize that he was hearing the dead.

The British Empire was saddled with Death's duties for a month then, a month that almost tore him apart. The screams got to him, the feeling of liquid blood, constantly filling his lungs as person after person died drove him near insanity. But it was no where near as awful or as damaging as when he had to tell a human, a nation, a person what awaited them. That month almost destroyed him; or so Death claimed, once the month was up It returned, hands strong with renewed power took the scythe and the misty figure reclaimed It's robe. It left then, but not before leaving a few parting words that still echoed in England's ears. Thank you for your service, Arthur, I'll be needing it again.

Death never forced It's duties on England for that length of time again; instead It slowly weaned him into a single day every decade. Stating that he could no longer control It's powers for more then a day since his empire had dwindled and his powers shrunk. England had never been so relieved that he lost everything as when Death told him that.

A particular tug at his lungs broke his reverie; the sign of hundreds of souls needing to be cut from their decaying corpses. He could do this; it was only for a day after all.

* * *

The first soul he came across was the victim of a murder. Throat slashed, eyes gouged, and tongue cut out; he turned his gaze to the horizon as the scythe fell and one less scream sounded in his mind. The next was a little girl; no older then eight who had fallen into a river and had failed to find shore. He tenderly closed her open eyes before cutting her free, watching dispassionately as her soul shook itself from her body; phantom water stopping her from completing her delicate 'thank you'. The fourth and sixth were similar, drug overdoses that resulted in a fine sheen of sweat to be caked to cracked skin. They left their bodies with a sharp inhale, breathing in pure air for the first time in years.

After that the dead blur together in a wash of blood and rotten flesh, only a few stick out.

The family that died in a car crash, caused by the daughter shouting that she hated the father; the younger brother went flying through the windshield and died at impact when his head struck the road, the mother's neck was snapped by her seat-belt. While the daughter and the father were caught in the car, alive as the engine exploded and fire licked at their bodies. England makes sure to gently lift the brother's soul from his torn body, placing it down on its feet and pushing it towards the mother's own weeping soul.

The man with his head blown off takes extra time to coax out of his body. His soul crying out that it was unfair; that he hadn't lived yet, done enough, accomplished anything. Most souls were happy to go on, and if they weren't they were apathetic; it was unusual for him to come across a soul that refused to move forward.

The rapist that had been killed in self defense; arm broken, ribs fractured, and a shard of bone cut through the femoral artery from where the victim had kicked him in the leg, shattering the fibula. He had bled out as his target ran away, tears slipping past clenched eyes as she sprinted to safety. England rips the scythe through the thin cord that connects soul to body, letting out his anger by crushing the souls hand after it disconnected from its corpse.

And the baby that had been born to early, its mother still hugging it to her chest. Sobs wracking her body as the babe's form cooled. Soft downy hair moved with the woman's gasps for breath as she begged god not to take her baby, not to steal him from her so early. England closed his eyes and steeled himself as he cut the baby's connection to life before hurriedly retying it; the babe would live, but he would have a severely shortened life when compared to other humans.

By the time that he's reaped enough souls for the array of screams in his head to die down to a dull roar the sun is just touching the horizon as dusk approaches. He only has a few more hours of wielding Death's scythe and wearing It's robe. Only a few more hours before he's just England again.

* * *

This is the part that he hates the most. Because the dead are simply dead; they are souls waiting to be freed from their cages of flesh and blood. But the living, the living are another matter. The living are those that are close to disaster, close to disease to ruin, and it is his duty to tell them. To warn them in some cases of the dangers to come, to damn them to those dangers if needed.

He has whispered into the ears of kings, emperors, presidents, and other nations. He has told them of their downfall, of their deaths. He has promised their loss of power, sworn to them that they would fall. The people he talks to varies, it all depend on what matter is most pressing. For he is not truly Death, so he can not hear all, see all, be all. So he finds that most of those he talks at are his fellow nations.

When he touches down, feet firmly planted on solid ground, he allows the wings he's borrowed from Death to slide back into the folds of the Death's robe; for Death comes on swift wings, and he is Death, so he must have wings. If only for the day.

He breaths in, tasting the coming horrors on the wind.

A tsunami was going to strike and thousands would die. Some from the water, others from the disease. A war was on the horizon, a war of religion, or faith; a war that promised to be bloody. Stock markets were falling and suicide rates were about to rise. A million and more disasters were going on in the world and only a few could be altered.

A hand on a frosted window and a gentle push, and he's in. Locks can not stop Death and England will not be halted, not tonight, or any other night that he is carrying out Death's duties. England cringes when he spots the posters, the propaganda, the signs that celebrate the Man of Steel, Stalin. Even if he wasn't directly opposing Russia he still flinched at what Ivan allowed Stalin to do, how the Man of Steel systematically cut down his own people. It made England's skin crawl.

He stops directly behind Russia, the bigger nation was focused on some papers, violet eyes wandering over the pages, soaking up the numbers and data. Out of all the nations that he could visit in the limited time he has left, Russia is in need of his guidance the most.

"Russia. Ivan. The cold is coming, your General will not be kept waiting. His forces are ready to sweep through your lands, and if you aren't careful, Ivan, if you don't take the right precautions you could lose everything. Be careful Russia, for winter is coming." If Russia didn't hear him, didn't heed the words of Death, then millions could die. The cold and ice would take them.

* * *

The sun warms his frozen bones as Death approaches, hand stretched out to take back It's scythe and wings. To take back It's powers and responsibilities. England solemnly hands them over, knowing better then to celebrate over being freed of this particular burden. Because Death always comes back, because it had promised all those years ago when it first foisted It's duties on him.

Thank you for your service, Arthur, I'll be needing it again.

Death would be back and he would be forced to reap the souls of rotting corpses and deliver dark tidings.


End file.
